


Less than Familiar

by LostGirl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGirl/pseuds/LostGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Buffy's (second, canonical) death, Wesley finds himself in the strange position of being the only one Giles will talk to.  (Buffy's is the Major Character Death for which I warned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less than Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Season 5 and Season 6.

Giles wasn't expecting anything. Not really. Still, he found his hand moving to the phone time and again. The tumbler in his grip shook enough to make the ice clink and he never could get around to dialing. It was the least he could do, wasn't it? Perhaps he could go, in person, as Willow had planned to do . . . Angel shouldn't hear it over the phone. Of course, he'd never intended to call Angel. Still, he knew that doing what he was contemplating would make it all very real. 

Part of him wanted that. Part of him wanted the grief and the anger, the guilty recriminations, anything to banish the numbness that gnawed at his heart, eating him alive. The rest of him knew it would be worse than he could even imagine, knew it would be crushing when it finally came down . . . came down . . . fell . . . like her body, once so strong and now broken . . . he would be that way as well . . . just as empty as her staring eyes.

Giles took a quick gulp from his glass, letting his mind dwell instead on the burn in his throat and gut. He should eat something. If he were going to drink like this . . .

He didn't move from his armchair, didn't tear his eyes from the Scotch in his glass. He did reach for the phone again. His hand trembled as he punched in the first four digits and went strangely still over the course of the next seven.

One ring, two.

"Pryce."

Giles found he couldn't speak, couldn't get his lips to shape into actual words the sounds his throat made. Sentences were . . . incomprehensible.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Ah, it's . . . Rupert," he finally managed, wondering if Wesley would even recognize his given name. Just then, he didn't particularly want to be 'Giles'.

"Rupert?" There was a bit of a pause as Wesley connected the names and realized with whom he was speaking. "Giles. What can I do for you?" The man's tone was completely professional, but not cold.

"She's dead." The words tore themselves from his throat, not at all what he'd meant to say and yet exactly the point.

"Buffy?" Wesley's voice held, perhaps, a bit of shock.

"Yes." Giles couldn't bring himself to say more. There was something welling inside him, something hard and jagged, hacking away at the numbness and slowly filling him.

 _Oh, god._ Why had he been so bloody desperate to feel? _Because she deserves to be mourned._

"When?" Wesley's voice, lacking in American accent and slightly familiar because of that alone, cut through the fog dragging at him.

"Tonight. I thought you all should . . . should know." There was a long pause and Giles was afraid that something of his new emotional state must have slipped through.

"Is someone there with you?"

"Hmm? What?" The question seemed to come out of the blue and it took Giles a moment to understand what Wesley meant.

"Is there someone with you? You, er, perhaps you shouldn't be alone."

Giles let out a bitter bark of laughter, disturbed by the way it tried to turn into a sob. "I'm fine," he insisted, unsure whether he was trying to convince Wesley or himself. "I only--" _wanted to hear a familiar sort of voice,_ "--thought you should know. Good-goodnight."

Giles hung up and stared at the phone as if it had somehow betrayed him.

\---

He tried to call again, but Giles wouldn't answer. Worried, Wesley chewed on his lower lip as he listened to the answering machine pick up.

"Gi-Rupert?" He wasn't sure what he'd expected. It had been three days and still the man wasn't answering. He'd left a message every day. Unsure whether Giles wasn't talking or just wasn't talking to him, which would be understandable. Either way, he felt somehow compelled to keep trying.

Giles could have called Cordelia, whom he knew quite a bit better. He could have called Angel or waited until daylight and called the office, talking to whoever answered. Instead, Giles had called him. It was more effort to find his number, but Giles had called him.

Shaking his head, unsure how to react to that, Wesley sighed.

"I know you're likely not interested in speaking to anyone at the moment and I completely understand the impulse. Uh, however," Wesley was stuck for what to say after that. He didn't want to repeat what he'd said the days before, as that clearly had had no effect, but . . . . "I find myself quite worried about you." The words slipped out when his brain could find nothing else. They were the truth, but he knew Giles would think them empty and hollow. Probably laughable as well. "Uh, please do return my call?"

Wes hung up the phone and sighed, cursing himself for an imbecile. _God, how did I get roped into this?_ Giles had never had much use for him, but he kept remembering that sad bark of laughter; such a lonely sound.

"Hey, Wes! Someone actually paid!" Cordelia walked in waving a check and grinning.

"Well, that should be useful," he remarked, distracted. "Any word from Angel?" The man had taken off after hearing about Buffy.

"You know I would have said something, Wes," Cordelia answered with a sigh, fidgeting with the check.

"Yes, I'm-I'm sorry." His eyes found the phone again. "Bloody stubborn gits," he muttered with a small shake of his head.

"Gits? As in more than one 'git'? What is a git, anyway?"

"What?" Wesley blinked, his mind pulled back from twin worries.

"Nothing. When was the last time you slept? Or ate? Are you on the coffee diet again? Come on; let me take you out to dinner. We have money, now!"

"Hmm? No, no, that's all right, I . . . I have to go see someone. I'll be back in the morning. Call my cell phone if you need to reach me."

"Uh, okay. Hot date? Please say it is!"

"Er, no, just . . . going to check up on an old acquaintance." He kept it vague, telling himself it was to keep Cordelia from worrying about Giles of all people . . . Still, his mind rang with that laughter, so close to a sob it was almost painful to remember.

"All right, but try to eat something!"

\-----

Giles' fingers reached out to the phone, brushing over the receiver, but not picking it up. He knew who was calling. Only one person had called in the last few days.

The children had tried that first day after . . . after. They'd knocked. He'd ignored. They'd called. He'd replayed their messages until the words were etched into his mind. Then he'd deleted them. Their grief was his fault and he hated himself more with each syllable that fell from their lips. Dawn's call had been the hardest. She couldn't keep the tears from her voice as she told him how worried she was, how much she wanted to see him, make certain he was all right.

Her call had left him diving into a bottle as unacknowledged tears wetted his cheeks. He hated himself more after hearing her. Part of him, the part that wasn't so deep in self-recrimination as to be drowning, blamed her. It would have taken a Hellgod to drag such a thing from his lips, but she was the reason Buffy was dead. Not even real and she should have died, long before that tower. _He_ should have seen to it, should have . . . Oh, god.

"Bastard," he growled at himself, shaking with repressed emotion. "Bloody heartless bastard."

A thought which only brought Ben's face swimming up into his memories. Unfortunately, it wasn't only his face Giles could remember so clearly. His memories brought him the feel of the man's mouth beneath his hand, desperate for air, desperate to live and yet so weak. Giles pulled himself out of those thoughts as the answering machine clicked on. He listened to his own voice, but was waiting, rather anxiously he was surprised to find, for that of another. He waited for smooth, accent-less tones that would say the same thing they had for the last three days.

_Rupert? This is Wesley. I'm sure you'd rather not speak to, well, anyone just now, but please do call. I'm terribly sorry for your loss._

Every day. The same message. Giles didn't particularly care what the man said. When he heard that voice it almost felt as if he was home again. Just for a few moments, the duration of the message, he could pretend he'd never come to this horrid country. He could ignore the words--familiar ones made that easy--and pretend it was a mate calling to see if he'd be meeting them for a drink.

He'd had mates once. He'd done more than this once. Granted, none of it had mattered the way being Watcher to the Slayer . . . to Buffy, had, but it had hurt less. This message was different and the new words threw him from his pleasant daydream.

"I find myself quite worried about you."

Giles clenched his jaw against the tears the words summoned. Lovely. Another person, practically a stranger, to feel guilty about.

 _Damn it._ Couldn't he leave anyone alone? Did he have to disturb everyone's lives? _Yes, because the world obviously revolves around your grief,_ he snarked at himself.

Giles had no idea how much time had passed when a knock came at the door. He guessed it was Willow, since Xander's last call had been angry, demanding to know how he could just disappear, when they all needed each other the most. Xander was right to be angry, but, beyond feeling guilty over it, Giles simply couldn't make himself talk to them, see them. It only reminded him of her, only reminded them of her. And to see Dawn . . . God, he couldn't. Not now.

"Rupert?" Giles' head snapped up, his eyes turning to the door. He was fairly certain that the shock of hearing that voice was what led him to answer.

\-----

Wesley was actually rather surprised when Giles opened the door, as he'd been half certain the man would ignore him. He couldn't say what had driven him to come all the way to Sunnydale. His thoughts on the way had mostly been planning on how he long he could stay and still get home to get some sleep before going in to the office.

Of course, he'd thought of Angel as well. Of how the man had just taken off. It was a day or two before he'd even called to let them know that he hadn't been dusted or . . . they'd all been worried. Angel, however, was out of reach.

Giles didn't look good. He stood in the doorway staring at Wesley as if they'd never met. He clearly hadn't been taking very good care of himself. The deep, bruise-colored circles under Giles' eyes, the mussed hair, the few days' worth of stubble, the natty bathrobe, all of them spoke of a rather bad time of things.

"Rupert? Uh, well, I suppose since I've been calling you that for three days now there's no need to switch back to 'Mr. Giles,' is there?"

"Call me whatever you like. I don't see as it makes much difference." Giles' words ran together, his voice so much less precise and clear than Wesley remembered. There was a bit of slur on the sibilant sounds and the sour smell of whiskey was more than noticeable. "What are you doing here?" Giles didn't invite him in, not that Wesley would have expected him to, considering. Rather, Giles simply turned and walked into his flat, door wide open, apparently uncaring whether Wesley followed or not.

Giles stumbled a bit, winding up sitting on one of the stools, giving Wesley a questioning look.

"Yes. Well, I'm not quite sure myself," Wesley muttered, stepping inside and closing the door behind himself.

The flat wasn't exactly a mess. In fact, it more had the air of a place that had been ignored for some time. There were several empty bottles, Scotch, brandy, etc, but beyond that, nothing. In and of itself, that worried Wesley. After all, Giles had left the bottles, but there were no dishes, no books out of place, nothing. As if the man hadn't bothered to eat or . . . _do_ anything. With only the light of a single lamp and all the shades drawn tight, the place was . . . dim really was an understatement. Dismal was a much better word. Of course, Wesley went over more, in several languages, deciding igalarin, from the Terack sub-dialect of Magarian, fit the best.

Nearly lightless, but with undertones of brooding, desolate, and neglected.

"Well, I hope you don't mind, but as I've not miraculously developed acute enough vision for this gloom, I'm going to turn on the lights." Hitting the switch near the door, he blinked at the brightness.

Giles, however, had to close his eyes, wincing a bit when he opened them. "Well? I assume you're here to check up on me. Why did they send you?"

"Hmmm? Who?" Wes didn't brother with formalities, since it was clear he'd find no welcome from Giles. Of course, he had no intention of leaving until he got a grip on just what was happening here.

"The children," Giles said with a sigh, turning to pour himself a drink. He poured two, handing one to Wesley, seemingly without a thought. Still, for a man who didn't show any signs of wanting company, it was a discordant gesture.

Wesley stared at the tumbler for a long moment, taking it for a sign that, underneath his need to push people away, Giles actually did want . . . something, some contact. Wes downed a good half of the generous portion of Scotch and set the glass aside.

Giles swallowed down his own drink, shrugging. "I knew they'd keep trying. They're not about to give up so easily, except for Xander, maybe, but I didn't think they'd drag anyone else into it."

"You haven't spoken with them?" Wesley guessed, leaning against the edge of Giles' desk.

"No. Why? There's nothing to say, now. Just apologies that mean nothing." Giles poured himself another measure. The man stared at the glass for a moment before setting it down and pushing it away.

"Is that so?" Wesley raised one eyebrow in a question.

"Yes," Giles all but growled. "That is exactly so."

"So, you've ignored them? Sat here in the dark for three days, listening to messages on the answering machine and not eating?"

Giles blinked at him and then glanced around, as if unfamiliar with even his own home. "Three days? Uh, yes, I suppose I have."

"Have they called? Come over?"

Giles shrugged. "They've all called. Xander came by. I don't see as it matters."

"I think it matters quite a lot," Wesley said with a sigh, finishing his own Scotch and setting the glass next to Giles' discarded one. "They obviously worry."

"They did call you then. I'm sorry. They're, uh, well it's bad for all of us. It's decent of you to make the drive down here, but . . . I'm sure you'd rather be on your way."

Wesley noted that there was no mention of Giles wanting him to go, just the assumption that he would want to. In a way, he did. He wanted to go home, or back to the office. He wanted to find Angel there and yell at the man for running out on them like that. Of course, at the same time, he understood and just . . . wanted to help, Angel, Giles, someone.

"No, I haven't talked to any of them at all, actually. I came because I was worried. You haven't picked up your phone in three days. Now that I'm here, well . . . I must confess to being further worried."

"Worried?" Giles looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Why should you worry?"

"A . . ." Wesley had begun to say that a friend of his was in pain, but stopped. That wasn't right. He and Giles had never been friends. Hell, they'd been rather more like enemies for most of his stay. While there had been moments of a sort of quiet companionship, after later events, Wesley was now inclined to write those off as politeness more then friendliness. No matter what he'd thought then. "You're a fellow human being," he finally said with a shrug. "You're clearly in pain. Should I turn my back on that instead of doing what I can to help?"

"There's nothing you can do," Giles said simply, picking up his discarded glass and swallowing the measure of Scotch in one go. "She's gone. There's nothing anyone can do."

"You don't have to do it this way, Rupert," Wesley said softly.

"What other way is there?" Giles snapped, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. He slammed the glass down on the counter, trembling with some emotion Wesley couldn't name. He thought Giles himself might well be having a hard time putting names to the mass of emotions he must be feeling. The man was so stuck in his grief, burying himself in it. Wallowing. Wesley could understand that, the impulse and the procedure. He'd seen it before, done it, though with different emotions. The shock of his expulsion from the Council had done a good deal to change that. He'd suddenly been left reeling, forced to really _think_ about his situation for the first time.

Perhaps what Giles needed was a similar shock. It wasn't as if Wesley had to worry about damaging their friendship, after all.

"You have people here for you and instead you barricade yourself in here and . . . what? Sulk? This isn't making it better for you, or for them. No wonder you and Angel don't get along. You're far too much alike." Wesley said, ending with a snort. That got a reaction. Giles was suddenly on his feet, invading Wesley's personal space, his jaw clenched and breath reeking of whiskey.

"How _dare_ compare me to that . . ." ending that statement with a noise of disgust, Giles turned, motioning to the door. "Get out."

"No."

"What?" Giles turned, wobbling only a little, and gave him a glare, which Wesley ignored.

"I'm certainly not leaving you in this state."

"What the bloody hell do you care? Leave. Go back to your beloved Angel, and LA, and leave me the hell alone."

"I don't know why I care. I suppose it's human compassion, or perhaps just that I've been waiting a few years to be in this position, regardless, I'm not leaving until you stop . . . _brooding_ in this dismal flat and go to where you should be. With the others, the others who loved her just as much as you did and haven't crawled away to die like wounded animals."

\----

Giles stared at the man, unbelieving that he'd actually heard what he thought he had. It took him a long moment to comprehend. 

" _Grieving_ ," he finally said, enunciating very carefully, turning to Wesley with anger-filled eyes. "I'm _grieving_. Not brooding, not sulking. I lost her, Wesley! My Slayer. My friend. My . . . Buffy. She's gone. Dead." The word seemed to hang in the air around them. Giles shook his head, continuing in a rough, low, voice. "Everything that defined my life is _dead_. You expect me to . . . what? Buck up? Stiff upper lip and all that? Fuck you."

Wesley didn't back down, not that Giles had expected him to. Even when he was in Sunnydale, a total prat, Wesley had never really backed down from him. It was at least one thing for which he could respect the man.

"No," Wesley's voice was much calmer now. "I don't expect you to suck it up and be done with it. You loved her and she's gone and it hurts so badly you feel as if your world's collapsing. That doesn't change because you eat and get dressed and go on living. Your life, no matter what you think, is not over yet."

Giles sighed, slumping back onto the stool, his voice rougher than he'd have liked. "Yes, it is. She's gone. I have no place here, no place with the children, no purpose. I . . . I can't even look at them now."

He glanced up at Wesley to see the man's apparent resolve crumble a bit. For just a single heartbeat Wesley looked almost helpless and then it was gone, wiped from Wesley's eyes and face as if it had never been.

"That's not true. The Slayer defined me once, too, and I know it isn't the same. I know . . . I know you were much closer to her than I could ever have been and I know how much . . . I know what it's like to lose someone you love, but . . . you still have Willow, and Xander. You still have friends, people who care if you pickle yourself." Even as he said it, Wesley reached to take a half-empty bottle of Scotch out of Giles' reach.

Giles watched him do it, raising an eyebrow but not speaking. He didn't have much to say, anyway. He knew all this. Knew where he should be, but it didn't change anything, not when he couldn't be what they expected him to be, not when he couldn't even imagine looking at them. He felt guilty, but it changed nothing.

"I can't," he finally said, Wesley's stare growing heavy upon him. "I can't see them now, I can't . . ." Giles choked back the sob that tried to force itself out as Dawn's face rose in his mind.

"All right," Wesley said, his tone softer than it had been. "But, you can eat and . . . forgive me for saying so, but a shower wouldn't hurt anything either."

Giles glanced up at Wesley. A laugh slipped from his lips and was followed by another and another, all of them humorless. His body shook with them and he bent double. Without warning, the line between laughter and tears slipped away and he found himself on the floor, kneeling, sobbing and unable to make it stop.

Wesley was suddenly beside him, strong arms wrapping over his body. Giles couldn't understand why it felt as if years had passed since anyone had touched him at all. Wesley was saying something, but Giles couldn't hear him over his own weeping. Some part of him insisted he should pull away. Not only didn't he deserve this kind of comfort, but he knew he had to look a fool to the other man. He had to pull himself together . . . though, perhaps that was what Wesley had been saying as well.

And then he thought of the last time he'd been in such a position . . . only then it had been Buffy's arms around him, Jenny's death the one for which he shed tears. He'd told Buffy that, though he'd buried too many people in his years, Jenny had been the only one he'd loved. Now there were two and the sobs returned.

\-----

Wesley was at a loss. He watched, horrified and yet relieved, as Giles' laughter--hysterical, for the most part--turned to tears. Pushing aside the thoughts and emotions that battered his brain at the sight, he knelt next to the man, trying to help him to stand and winding up holding a broken Watcher in his arms.

There was a moment when Wesley thought Giles might be calming and then the sobs returned, Giles' whole body shaking with them. Wes couldn't say how long they knelt there, or when he realized that the storm had passed . . . and Giles had passed out.

Sighing, Wes pondered how he was going to get the man to his bed. After a while, he realized there was simply no way he could maneuver an all but unconscious Giles up the stairs and settled for the sofa. Not that that was much easier a task. He moved the coffee table out of the way and roused Giles enough to stumble, more under Wesley's power than his own, to the sofa. Giles passed out almost at once and Wesley was left staring at the man.

The combination of Scotch and grief was going to make Giles' waking up extraordinarily unpleasant. Wes only hoped the sleep was more peaceful. His eyes flitted to the dark circles under Giles' eyes and he wondered when Giles had last slept. He must have eaten something in the last days. He must have, but it couldn't have been much. Giles looked so different from the confident, sarcastic, intelligent man he'd known. He looked . . . devastated.

Sighing, Wesley went into the small kitchen area, grabbed the bin and began to throw away the empty bottles. He was careful to keep the clinking to a minimum. He poured out whatever alcohol remained in the flat, wondering if Giles had actually made a trip to the store at some point or whether he'd had it all stored somewhere. Neither option was particularly reassuring.

He opened the windows enough to allow for some air flow. Glancing over at the sleeping man, he shook his head, sighing. Trotting up the stairs, he grabbed a pillow and blanket from Giles' bed. Wes couldn't help but glance around while he was up there. Everything was neat, but not as meticulous as the ground floor. There was a bundle of incense on the dresser, a few books on the night table. The bed had been made and he was willing to bet every last one of his teeth that Giles hadn't been up here since before . . .

Shaking his head, Wesley took the bundle of incense and went back downstairs, tossing the blanket over Giles and squeezing the pillow in under the man's head. That done, he lit a few sticks of incense and took a seat, glancing around the flat. The outside air was slowly leeching away the smell of alcohol, the incense helping to replace it, but it would take a while longer. He couldn't leave until he could close the windows. Vampires might not be able to get in, but that was little comfort when one considered the various other demons that populated the Hellmouth.

He could have called one of the children to come sit with Rupert, but he was fairly certain that if he did that there were be a very, very angry Watcher on his doorstep in a few days time. Beyond that, the way the man's voice had broken when he said he couldn't see them now . . . there was something he didn't know and Wesley was disinclined to push.

So, what was he going to do for the hour or so before the flat no longer smelled stale and sour? He sighed, heaving himself up and heading once again to the small kitchen. He was tired, needed to go home and sleep, needed to be where he could help should Cordelia have another vision. Still, as he made himself tea, he glanced into the living room to check on Rupert and found he didn't actually begrudge the man the time.

When he could finally shut the windows, he did it quietly, quickly writing a note. It took him a moment to decide where to leave it, but he finally, in hopes that Giles would remember their conversation, taped it to the bathroom mirror before slipping out of the flat for the long drive home.

\---

Giles woke to a mouth that felt . . . rather like felt, actually, with some lint shoved down his throat for good measure. His head was apparently inhabited by several orchestras and a few disreputable rock bands. Reluctantly, he peeled one eye open, trying to identify the sense of . . . wrongness that clung to him. His brain was slow and fuzzy and it was hard to think, but there had to be a reason for the gnawing hole inside him.

It hit hard, Buffy's fall from the tower replayed before his eyes. He winced away from it, the action sending white hot sparks of pain through his head. Sighing, he opened his eyes slowly, moving to sit up. There was something different about his flat, but he was more concerned with getting that horrible taste out of his mouth, then figuring out what it was.

Standing didn't help his head any, stumbling toward the bathroom did even less for his general well-being. Leaning against the sink, he stared at the water pouring from the faucet for a long moment before he bent to wash his face. The water was cold and sent shivers through him, helping to clear away the fog. He stood, reaching for his toothbrush and paused, his hand halfway there, when he saw the note.

_Rupert,_

_I had to leave to get home for sleep and work. I'll be back tonight to see that you eat something, so don't even think about diving into another bottle of Scotch. I poured it all out anyway. Even the twelve year old. I expect you to stay at least sober enough to kick my arse for that, if nothing else._

_Wesley_

Giles stared at the note for a long time, at first trying to get the words to stay in one place long enough to read and then simply because he couldn’t quite understand what Wesley was saying.

He was coming back? Giles' mind seemed to stick on that point. He vaguely remembered Wesley coming down to check on him . . . an act he couldn't help but feel grateful for, considering the state in which he'd been. Sighing, Giles pulled the note down, folding it up and putting it in the pocket of his robe for later examination.

Right now, he needed a shower . . . and breakfast. And Buffy. He couldn't have the last one though. She'd never again walk into his flat, at the worst possible time, with donuts and a sunshine smile.

His chest constricted so hard he doubled over the sink.

\-----

Wesley kept glancing at the phone. All while he was attempting to translate two different texts and find three different bits of paper he _knew_ he'd had not moments ago.

"Did you eat?" Cordelia's voice came from the doorway and Wesley looked up, knowing his expression was probably more sheepish than he'd have liked. "Okay, did you sleep then? Real sleep?"

"Well," Wesley said, going back to sorting through his papers, "that would depend on what exactly you mean by 'real sleep', now wouldn't it?"

"More than four hours," Cordelia quickly supplied, coming to sit on the edge of his desk.

"Well, then, I slept. And I did eat," he said with a sigh. "Just not lunch, yet."

"It's almost three in the afternoon," Cordelia gave him an arched eyebrow and he sat back in his chair.

"Then, I'll have lunch. Just as soon as I find those damn papers." Rubbing at his forehead, Wesley caught himself glancing at the phone again. Damn. He was going to make the call; he knew he was. It was just a matter of when he finally gave in.

"Come out to lunch with me? It's dead around here and it'll do us both some good." She stood and made to leave in a way that suggested there wasn't going to be a discussion about it.

Hiding a smile, Wesley forced himself to sigh. "All right. Just . . . let me make a phone call, first."

She turned a radiant smile on him and then was out the door, shutting it behind her. Wesley looked back to the phone and sighed. Finally finding one of the bits of paper for which he'd been looking, he picked up the receiver and dialed the number on it.

One ring. Two. Three.

"Hello?" Willow's voice was subdued, nowhere near as light as he remembered it. Not that he was surprised of course, only that it was one thing to know something another to experience it.

"Hello, this is Wesley."

"Oh," she sounded a bit confused. "Hey. Is everyone okay? I mean, Cordy told me that Angel . . . is everyone okay?"

"Yes, yes. Uh, I . . . I wanted to let you know that I'm talking to Giles, that he's not . . ." 'Alone' had been his first choice of wording, but that wasn't exactly true. 'He's not drinking himself into a stupor' didn't seem quite the thing to say either. Luckily, he didn't have to finish.

"Oh! Oh! How is he?"

"You do realize," Wesley said, sighing, "that if I answered that question in any way other than 'fine', he'd skin me alive, yes?"

"Oh, so . . . he's 'fine'." Willow's tone let him know that she understood.

"I think . . . he's going to be. He's just, uh . . ." how could he tell her that Rupert simply wasn't ready to see them. How could he ask for details and . . . he couldn't. He couldn't put Willow through the pain and he wasn't sure what he needed to know, but he suspected that, when he found out, it would have to be because Giles was ready to tell him. "He's grieving, deeply, as you all are, but . . . I do think he's pulling himself out of it."

_Hopefully. How did I get in this position?_

"Okay. Umm, when . . . when you talk to him again? Just, tell him we miss him?"

"Of course." Wesley sighed, the hurt in Willow's voice just one more spur. He remembered, so clearly, his telling Buffy that Willow had to be sacrificed and . . . God, he wasn't sure he'd say anything differently now, though he'd damn well try harder. Perhaps find a way to rig the box or . . . it didn't matter now. None of it did. Pushing away the memory, he said, "I'll call you if there's any trouble and . . . I'll make sure he knows that he's missed."

"Thanks . . ." Willow's breath seemed to catch then. "For calling and for looking out of him. I know . . . I hope he pulls himself out soon."

"So do I," Wes said softly, more to himself than to Willow. "Goodbye."

"Bye."

\---

Showered, shaved and dressed, Giles stood in the kitchen without a single clue as to what to do. He was hungry, starving, but just couldn't seem to grasp the simple concepts of a lifetime cooking for himself. Shaking his head, sighing, he decided to start with the basics.

He reached for the kettle and his mind was overwhelmed with memories of Buffy's Thanksgiving. Of her insistence that everything be perfect. He remembered his and Willow's bickering, Spike's snarking, poor Xander prostrate on the couch with nearly every disease known to man.

He remembered how she'd looked at him when he'd said he didn't have a ricer and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. It would never be hard enough to drive away the memories.

Leaning against the sink, he swallowed against the knot in his throat, trying to control himself, to quell the rising tide of grief. That path led to the need for Scotch and, after Wesley's visit, he had none. That helped, almost-- _almost_ \--brought a smile to his face as he remembered Wesley's note and imagined the man rolling up his sleeves and grumbling as he . . .

A thought struck him then and Giles straightened, glancing out into the living room. No bottles. There had been empty bottles and now there were none. A pleasant, scent . . . his own incense, hung in the air. He couldn't be sure, but he was fairly certain the place hadn't smelled that way last night.

No. It had smelled of whiskey and grief, of his own tears and . . . Wesley had aired out his flat while he slept. Touched by that gesture, Giles turned back to the fill the kettle, ignoring the trembling of his hand.

\-----

Wesley looked up, blinking at Cordelia.

"Are you all right?" The concern on her face forced him to try and remember what they'd been discussing, only to realize he didn't have the foggiest notion.

"Uh, just . . . thoughtful," he said, trying to smile. She saw through him, he could tell by the arched eyebrow, though he wasn't exactly sure it was hard to see through the weak front he'd put up.

"Angel's fine," Cordelia said quietly, reaching out to lay her hand on his. "Well, not fine. I mean . . . God, he loved Buffy, but he's not going to get himself hurt and he's . . . he's gonna come back. Soon."

Wesley opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, his mind stuttering to a halt for a moment before the gears re-aligned themselves and began turning again. Angel. Yes, Angel.

"I know," he said softly. "Cordelia, I don't doubt that he'll come back, or that he won't get himself hurt." _I wasn't worrying about him, just then._ "I wish . . . I wish he'd let us help him, but I trust him and if he needed to be away from everything . . . I can't be sorry he left, only that . . . that he did it the way he did."

"Well, in that case, what were you thinking about so hard?"

Wesley wasn't sure how to answer that question. Should he tell her that he'd been worrying about Rupert . . . Giles? Been wondering if the man had gotten up off the couch, if there'd been a bottle of something he'd missed, if Rupert were even now pissed and sinking back into his grief. The sight of him, kneeling on the floor, his whole body wracked as he sobbed . . . Wesley didn't think he'd ever be able to get it out of his head. Lord knew it hadn't given him much peace during the night.

"Just . . . worrying," he said softly, looking back to his plate and moving around the bits of food he'd not eaten. He should have told her. It wasn't a secret, after all. It wasn't as if Cordelia would be angry with him. She might be worried about Giles, though . . . and she might ask why. Somehow, Wes was unwilling to explain, possibly because he didn't understand himself.

The compassionate side of his nature insisted that it wasn't at all strange for him to drive two hours at night, when he was dead tired, to make sure Giles was all right. And it wouldn’t have been, not if he'd been the only one possible to check on Giles. But there was Willow, there was Xander. Either of whom he could have called after gaining access to Rupert's flat. He hadn't. And, if he were truthful with himself, it wasn't only that he hadn't wanted to push Giles into seeing the children again, not when the man insisted he couldn't yet. It was more than that, and that was why Wesley held his tongue, why he didn't just tell Cordelia everything. She might also ask to come along tonight. She might want to know the details.

Not only did Wesley know Rupert would hardly appreciate that, he didn't want her to see the man that way. Didn't want anyone else to see Giles so very wounded. Which was absurd of course, and yet . . . he felt an odd need to protect the man's privacy, his dignity.

_Good lord, I truly have lost my bloody mind._

\-----

Wesley stretched, sighing as he made his way to Rupert's door. Cordelia had a vision and he and Gunn had wound up fighting a demon with a love of trash. He'd had to stop and take a shower before the drive and sitting for that long hadn't done him any good.

Still, he'd been thinking about Rupert all day. He wasn't sure what he was going to find when the door opened, wasn't sure how angry at him Giles would be, how much he'd crawled back into his grief. He'd imagined a hundred scenarios. Anything from him finding Rupert much as he had night before, to him getting several choice words and a door in his face. He'd also imagine--though he thought it the least likely of scenarios--his finding the children here, finding them all together and . . .

Why did that thought trouble him as much as the others? He should be happy, thrilled, to walk in on that sort of scene. Yet, the thought was part of the conglomeration of things making his stomach tight with nerves.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door. A moment passed, and then another, before he was answered by Rupert's voice.

"Just a moment."

There wasn't much to tell from the voice. The man didn't sound pissed, but it was only three words. He didn't sound particularly angry, either, but . . . one could never tell.

The door opened and Wesley could feel his eyes widen. Giles was shaved, showered, dressed, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder. Blinking, and slightly embarrassed at the way his eyes had raked over Giles, Wesley cleared his throat.

"Uh, you're looking a good deal better," his mouth blurted out before his brain was fully recovered.

"Yes," Giles ducked his head and Wesley couldn't tell whether it was a smile or a frown the man was trying to hide. "And that's largely your doing." Rupert gestured into his flat, holding the door open.

Wesley entered, glad to see the blinds open. There wasn't enough light outside to brightened the place, but there were lights on now, not simply that one, sad lamp. The second thing Wes noticed was the smell.

"Are you cooking?" Wesley couldn't help a small smile at that. He turned to Rupert, who nodded a bit sheepishly.

"I, uh, thought it would be a worthy thank you. If you're hungry?" Rupert raised an eyebrow in question, walking past him and into the little kitchen.

Surprised, Wesley found himself nodding. "Uh, why . . . Thank you. It smells wonderful." Taking off his coat, he hung it up, glancing around the flat and being generally more nosey than he might otherwise be.

There was a picture of Buffy on the coffee table. She was smiling and young, about the age she was when he'd first arrived in Sunnydale. Wesley stared at it, thinking of that bright, capable girl he'd known and the mess he'd made of things. He couldn't help but wonder how things might have been if he'd not been such a prat, so insistent and rigid.

Would they have accepted him here? He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't imagine a life for himself that didn't include Angel and Cordelia. They were . . . they were his family. That was, perhaps, what he hadn't understood about Buffy. Giles was her family; trying to replace him . . . It simply wasn't possible.

"She was the very best," he said softly, barely aware he was speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Yes," came the sad reply from behind him. Wesley startled, turning to find Rupert watching him from the door of the kitchen. Giles swallowed hard, shaking his head. For a moment it looked as if he would speak, but he apparently decided against it and turned back into the kitchen.

Sighing, Wesley followed him, standing in the doorway so as not to get in Rupert's way. He remained quiet, simply watching the other man move in the small space with an efficiency and competence that almost served to mask the trembling of his hands.

"Something to drink?" Giles asked, not looking at him.

Wesley felt one of his eyebrows raise.

"I don't have any Scotch on hand," there was a lighter tone to the man's voice now and Wesley felt himself smile, almost against his will, "but I did venture out for some wine."

"That would be lovely," Wesley agreed, watching as Giles reached up and pulled out two wine glasses. They were far in the back and Wes had to assume it had been a while since the man had had anyone over to his home.

How lonely. And all too familiar from his own time in Sunnydale. He couldn't help but to wonder if it had been the same for Rupert then. If he'd spent his nights alone, as Wesley had, wondering what the next day would bring and if he would be strong enough to handle it, resolve it, fight it, whatever was needed of him? After the . . . incident with Balthazar, Wesley thought his doubts were likely much more present than Rupert's.

But then, Rupert had had other things to think about, hadn't he? Wesley remembered reading about Jenny Calendar. The details had not been in Rupert's journals, the personal ones, at least. The entry concerning her death was very short. He'd heard more, of course, from others at the high school. Rupert and the children had been the subject of many a whispered conversation and there were no shortage of people who wanted to 'warn the new guy' of their . . . oddities.

Ms. Calendar's death had been one of those hushed warnings. Rupert's relationship to her was not entirely clear. He knew they'd been dating, but that, in and of itself, meant little. There were varying degrees of 'seeing one another'.

"Here we are," Rupert said, drawing him back to the present with a small smile and a glass of wine. Wesley accepted it, returning the smile. "Dinner will be ready shortly."

\-----

"Well, there wasn't much else I could do," Giles said with a laugh, glancing over at Wesley to make certain he wasn't boring the man. Wes seemed rather interested, actually, leaning forward, the remnants of dinner pushed to the side. "I told the truth, of course. Or, rather, a version of it. I had slept through the whole incident and had no idea where the mummy had gotten itself off to."

Wesley broke into laughter and Giles couldn't remember ever having seen that before. He was rather taken by the way it changed Wesley's face, made his eye light up and--had they always been that very blue? Finding himself staring, he had to look away, suddenly feeling guilty for more than a few things.

God, how could he be doing this? Telling amusing stories and laughing when Buffy . . . and he'd kept Wesley far too late. The man had simply come to check on him, not spend so long. As for the rest? Giles pushed that knotted tangle of not-quite-thought safely aside. It wasn't even worth considering.

"What's wrong?" Wesley's laughter had stopped, but Giles had barely registered that. Now, however, he found that he rather missed the sound. This was, of course, his cue to put some distance between himself and Wesley.

"Nothing," Giles said with a dismissive wave. "I'm sorry to have, uh, delayed you. You'll probably want to get back to LA. It's . . . a very long drive and I've kept you too long." Giles forced a smile, standing to collect the plates and take them into the kitchen.

"Delayed me?" Wesley sounded completely incredulous, but Giles didn't want to look over and see if the emotion were echoed in his expression. Frankly, he wasn't sure what he wanted to see and so thought it better not to look at all. "You hardly tied me to the chair and forced me to eat."

Wesley followed him into the kitchen, the now empty wine glasses in his hands.

Giles snorted, shaking his head. "Thank you for coming, Wesley," he said softly, embarrassment clear in his tone. Neither of them had mentioned what Wesley had found on his first visit. Neither of them had commented on the state Giles had been in, nor the one to which he'd descended and Giles was more than grateful for that, as well as all that Wesley had done. The man had enough to deal with; it had been terribly kind of him to come all this way two nights in a row.

Giles shoved down the hope that Wesley might continue to visit. He had no right to ask that and saw no reason why Wesley might wish to, especially considering the fool he'd already made of himself.

Suddenly realizing Wesley's continued silence, he glanced over to find the man studying him intently. Unsure how to feel about that, but unwilling to look away like a guilty man, Giles returned the look, raising an eyebrow in question.

"You're allowed to laugh, Rupert."

Giles shrugged, shaking his head. "I know that," he said softly, remembering how long it had taken for him to learn that after . . . after Jenny's death. That he was allowed to go on, allowed to live in the world even if it no longer included her. The thought still hurt, would always hurt. He knew it was the same now, but it seemed so soon. It had only been a few days. She'd been alive not even a week ago.

"I don't think you do," Wesley said softly and Giles shrugged, washing the plates more vigorously than was strictly necessary.

"It's too soon," he said softly, voice choked. "It feels wrong. She was . . . how can I act as if nothing happened? Forget, for even a moment that . . . it's too soon."

"Rupert--" Whatever Wesley was going to say, the phone cut him off. Giles wiped his hands, reaching for it automatically and stopping halfway. What if it were one of the children? What if it were Dawn?

He stared at the receiver, feeling all the muscles in his body tense, his jaw tighten. Wesley said nothing, but he could feel the man's eyes on his back. He should answer it, should talk to them, but he couldn't bring himself to take that step, to lift the receiver. He stood there frozen as the answering machine clicked on, his own voice filling the flat.

Then Willow's voice answered, hesitant.

"Giles? Are you home? Okay, uh . . . I hope you're doing all right. I'm glad you're talking to someone, even if it's not us. Um, I . . . I forgot to mention it to Wesley earlier, 'cause I was kinda surprised to hear from him, but . . . um, Buffy's service is tomorrow. Mr. Martin did everything off the books, so . . . no one knows and . . . we're going to do it in the little spot I showed you back when . . . God, it's been so long. Um, if you don't remember the way, call? I . . . I hope you'll be there. Uh, I'd . . . I'd like your help with the concealment charms."

The answering machine clicked off and Giles blinked away the blur in his vision before turning and looking at Wesley.

"You called Willow?" His voice was soft.

"Yes," Wesley nodded, the only change in his mood was a wary tension that seemed to make him more . . . Wesley-like. While Giles couldn't be sure it had been there the first time Wesley had visited, he got the feeling it was the man's usual state. Only, Giles then realized, it hadn't been there at all during dinner.

"Thank you, again. I seem to be saying that to you quite too often, these days."

Whatever response Wesley had expected, it apparently had not been that. The tension flowed away from him and his eyes widened.

"You're not angry?"

Giles shook his head, sighing and turning back to the dishes. "I don't want them to worry about me. I simply . . . I can't see . . . oh, God." Giles stopped as the rest of Willow's words sunk in. Buffy's service was tomorrow. _Oh, God._

"Rupert?"

Giles didn't remember Wesley coming to stand beside him. It was the feel of a warm hand on his shoulder that made him start back to himself, blinking. "Uh, Buffy's . . . service," was all he choked out. He leaned heavily against the sink, his arms shaking more from emotion than the weight put upon them, his mind conjuring up pictures.

"Rupert? What is this? Forgive me for saying so, but this doesn't seem like you. What is it?" There was true concern in the other man's voice, worry, and Giles hated to hear it. God, what had he done to deserve this? Nothing. He didn't deserve to have Wesley's concern, or companionship.

"Dawn," he said softly, unsure why he'd even spoken except that the answer was welling inside him, trying to push its way out no matter how hard he'd tried not to think about it, how hard he'd tried not let the words pass his lips.

"Dawn?" Wesley's voice revealed a bit of confusion. Giles was unsure whether that was because Wesley didn't know the circumstances or because the memories of her were just now being built.

"Buffy died for her. She . . . God, I can't. I can't even . . ." Giles swallowed hard, shaking his head. He couldn't say it. He couldn't. Speaking it aloud would make it real, make it a part of him and he couldn't stand that.

"Sit down," Wesley's voice was hard, more as it had been that first visit. Giles listened without any really thought on the matter, his mind taken up by other things. Walking around Wesley, he went and slumped onto the sofa, propping his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"What is it about Dawn? Why does the thought of seeing her . . . any of them, do this to you?"

Giles sighed, forcing his breathing into a regular rhythm, trying to calm his tumbling mind. It spun in circles, defying his attempts, replaying the scenes from that night before his eyes in an obscene fast motion that made him feel dizzy and nauseated.

"Glory, the Hellgod we were . . . fighting is, perhaps, not the word. Uh, she . . . she needed Dawn's blood to open the gateway to her dimension. This would, of course, tear down the walls between several dimensions and . . . I don't have to explain how bad that would have been."

He felt more than saw Wesley nod. Keeping the story abbreviated, he left out Ben entirely and concentrated on the fact that Glory had captured Dawn. Of course, he knew Wesley would ask, would want to know why Dawn was important. He couldn't look at the man, knowing the disgust he would soon see in eyes he'd been looking into far too often to begin with.

"Dawn . . . is a construct, of sorts. She's, uh, she's human now, but before this year she was nothing but pure energy. An energy called the key, capable of what I've described. The monks set to guard her were no longer capable of that task and so sent her to Buffy in a form Buffy would not be able to refuse to protect . . . a sister. Dawn had no knowledge of this; neither did Buffy or . . . any of us. Memories were constructed; continue to be in all those who should have known her in the past. It's, uh, easier if you just accept them."

He glanced at Wesley to find the man staring, his eyes on the picture of Buffy on the coffee table. "I . . . oh my. That's . . . a lot to take in. Still, uh, that . . . that doesn't explain why you . . ." He gestured and met Giles' gaze, obviously confused.

Swallowing again, trying to clear the knot in his throat into which the words had formed, Giles straightened and said, "part of me, some . . . good lord, some part of me, blames her." The last words were so soft he wasn't sure Wesley had heard them, wasn't sure he wanted the man to have heard them. He'd rather been enjoying Wesley's company. "Some part of me blames Dawn, a child, a complete innocent in all of this . . . and yet, I can't . . . I can't stop the anger."

"Oh."

"Yes," Giles said with a sigh, "Oh."

\-----

Wesley shook his head, reaching out to lay his hand on the man's shoulder once again, the gesture coming automatically. Rupert looked up at him and the surprise, the _gratitude_ in the man's eyes made him speechless. What had Rupert thought would happen? That Wesley would turn away, would . . . what?

"You know anger is . . . normal, don't you?"

Giles nodded, looking so worn and weary that Wesley wanted to make him laugh again.

"At Buffy. Were I angry at Buffy, as much as the thought hurts, I could deal with it. When . . . uh, when Jenny died, I had someone to be angry with, someone who deserved that anger. Dawn doesn't deserve this and . . . I can't hurt her, Wesley. I can't treat her differently, I can't look at her differently, I can't do that to her."

"I see. No," Wesley said after a moment, "I don't think I do. You call her an innocent in this and yet blame her?"

Giles laughed, but it was not at all the sound Wesley had wanted to hear just a few moments ago. It was a bitter, twisted bark, the same one he'd heard over the phone that night. So close to being a sob that it was painful to hear.

"She is an innocent. Dawn . . . is at worst a passive catalyst who wanted this to happen as little as anyone else." Rupert stood, pacing in the small living room area, his voice intense and angry. "Glory and her minions were at fault, Ben was at fault, not Dawn and still . . . every time I hear her voice I . . ." Giles shook his head, sinking back onto the sofa.

"Rupert?" Wesley said nothing more until the man looked at him. "You don't think she's already blaming herself? You not seeing her, refusing to talk to her . . . it's only going to confirm her own sense of blame."

Giles blinked at him and for a moment Wesley thought he'd broken through the problem.

"It is, I think, better for her to wonder then to have me . . . 'open my mouth and remove all doubt'." Giles snorted bitterly at the double entendre. "That's what my anger will do and I can't . . . I can't do that to her."

Wesley shook his head. "She's all that's left of Buffy," he said softly. "They all are. The very fact that you're worrying about it like this says that you would never do that Dawn. You need to get over your fear of seeing them, being reminded of her by them."

Rupert looked at him, or rather in his direction. The man's eyes were distant, though, filled with thoughts Wesley simply couldn't read.

"I have to call Cordelia," Wesley said, standing. He didn't expect Rupert to snap back to the present the way he did, didn't expect the man's eyes to suddenly focus on him.

"Call Cordelia?" Giles blinked at him and Wesley swallowed, clamping down hard on the thought of how adorable the man looked when he was confused.

 _Yes, I have most certainly lost what mind I had remaining._ Worse, had he not known better, he might have thought Rupert was . . . flirting. At dinner the man had been, well, charming was certainly an understatement. There had been moments, of course, when Rupert's eyes would go distant, but those passed and Rupert . . . was just putting up a front, of course. Trying to seem normal and over doing it. That was all there was to it.

"I need to let her know that I'm in Sunnydale and that I won't be into the office until after Buffy's service tomorrow."

Giles shook his head. "Wesley, I don't need you to hold my hand. I'm a grown man." There was no anger in the statement, only weariness.

"I didn't say I was going to. Only that I was going to Buffy's service. I'm glad to hear you will be as well." Wesley left the room while Giles was still blinking. He couldn't hide his smile as he slipped into the bathroom, but it was a small thing, edged with worry.

\-----

Giles shook his head, unsure what had just happened. One moment they were . . . discussing Dawn and the next Wesley had completely changed the subject. Or had he? Feeling slightly foolish just standing there, blinking, Giles moved to put away the rest of the wine and finish the dishes.

He was deep in thought when Wesley returned from making his phone call. In fact, he didn't register the man's presence at first and when he did, he started.

"Please don't do that."

"I'm sorry," there was a slight smile on Wesley's face. "I assumed that, because I was speaking to you, you knew I was here."

Giles sighed, his own lips echoing that smile. "I'm sorry, I was, uh, thinking."

Wesley waved aside his explanation. "No trouble. I was asking if it would be possible for me to stay with you tonight."

Giles glanced up, his mind processing Wesley's words through his own wants. However, the blue eyes his gaze met were filled with a similar heat, a similar want. They stood, both frozen, for a long moment and then Giles found himself moving purely on the strength of that look.

He stepped closer to the man; his breathing faster than it should be as he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly along Wesley's arm. He knew he hadn't mistaken the slight shiver that went through Wes' body, the flare of want in the man's eyes. He moved closer, saw Wesley take a deep breath, his lips parting a bit. His adam's apple bobbled as he swallowed. Wes' eyes moved lower, to Giles' lips.

The air around them felt heavy and languid, waiting. They both remained that way for a moment, neither moving forward or back. Then Giles leaned in, brushed his mouth over Wesley's and laying a small, opened mouthed kiss at the corner of the man's lips.

Wesley made some sound, soft, indescribable and, though there was little room between, them, Wes was suddenly filling it all. Their mouths moved against one another, lips parting and closing, growing more frantic by the second until Wesley darted out his tongue, sliding it along Giles' lower lip.

Giles couldn't say who moved first after that, whose hands slid over the other first, whose mouth opened, whose tongue slipped inside. It was a blur of want, bodies pressing together, small humming sounds filling the kitchen as he and Wesley kissed. His hands wound up, after long moments exploring Wesley's back, cupping the sides of the man's neck, thumbs rubbing along Wes' jaw line. They tasted one another with long, searching strokes of tongue and hard, wanting presses of lips.

When the kiss ended, Giles found Wesley's forehead pressed against his own, both of them panting, Wesley hands rubbing up and down his arms.

"I," Wes paused, clearing his throat and then continuing less hoarsely. "I believe that was a yes?" There was more to the question than the surface, Giles knew. Wesley was asking far more than whether he could stay the night. He was asking whether they would pass it together, whether or not Giles wanted him to leave, whether or not Giles wanted him. So many questions in just a few words.

Giles opened his eyes to meet Wesley's. "Stay the night."


End file.
